Beijing Angels
Yufei writes love letters. Too many, perhaps, when they begin to overflow the drawer they’ve been hastily stuffed into since the moment he’d known his affliction had come too far. On some days, the words prick hard and stale. On others, the words flow far too easily and Yufei begins to suspect that he may be becoming somewhat of an optimist. Unsent. Unlabeled. Unread. That’s all these letters are.
Today, Yufei writes about nothing in particular. The weather, the people, the streets—it’s all so cliché that Yufei chastises himself for stringing together such pathetic excuses of affection. But he writes about the weather, the people, and the streets anyways. Perhaps in another life, these are the hands of a writer. With these calloused palms and brazen words stuck flush against the roof of his mouth—Yufei doesn’t think he would mind the change of pace.
The phone rings. There is that wince of pain—that sudden notion of reality that brings Yufei back to an overbearing present. He can now taste the pen’s bitter ink and the scars of words freshly carved out from the tip of his tongue. These are scars that do not age with time. They are scars that, when you run your fingers along the pink-white skin, feel achingly alive.
It’s now half past midnight. Yufei picks up the phone.
“Wei?”
“Ouyang Yufei. How are you? I must ask—have you yet to take a knife to your throat? Or perhaps, a barrel to your temple?” The man on the other end gives way to a hearty laugh. A long, beautiful sound, with no beginning and no end. Just that.
“Cai Xiaohe. How thoughtful. You sure know how to cheer up a man.” Yufei sucks his bottom lip. “I’m fine. Could I say the same about you?”
There’s a pause and Yufei fears he must have said too much. Said too little.
“I suppose so. Hey, listen, I don’t usually call you around this time, right? You know me well. I’ve got a favor to ask.”
“Tell me then. I have time.”
“Okay, okay. Ah, just… don’t think oddly of me, alright Yufei?” And why would he? “Can you come over this weekend? I’ll make it worth your time.”
Yufei trembles. He wants Xiaohe to beg for his attention.
“For what?”
“Can’t say yet. Not now, at least. Just tell me yes or no.”
There’s a hand caressing his own cheek and Yufei decides that for once in his life, he will learn to be greedy. Learn to choke back the gag when the feeling reaches too far down his throat and keeps its grasp steady.
“…Yes. I’ll meet with you soon.”
“Great. Good night then, Yufei. Wanan.”
He waits too long. Yufei parts his lips and the dull buzz of the receiver answers his unspoken words instead.
“Good night. Wanan.” Yufei says anyway.
The night has become long. In the light of the gaslit lantern, Yufei has rubbed the creases of his eyes red. They look broken and bruised.
When the night finally wanes down into a crisp morning sun, Yufei shoves the love letter of the day into the drawer below. It will never see the light again.
In their younger years, Xiaohe had once told Yufei that the corners of his eyes looked too similar to the tail-end of a dragon. Feifei, he’d say, pulling back the soft skin of his own slanted monolids, you’re quite feminine, you know? Pretty. That’s the word.
Of course, a man can’t be pretty. But when Yufei begins to apply the rouge to his cheeks and smears the crushed peony across his lips, perhaps he begins to believe otherwise. The feeling is there.
“One more minute!” The troupe director calls out. Yufei shivers—knows that Xiaohe must have also felt the same throb of adrenaline at the sound of the director’s voice. After all these years, they are still the same children from so long ago.
“Young master Yufei! You’ve forgotten your headpiece. How can you play the honorable role of Du Liniang without it? Shame on you!”
Yufei turns around. Before him stands the opera attendant, ruby jewels sat in velvet hands.
“I apologize, shigong. It will never happen again.”
Yufei bows. Lets the weight rest heavy on his painted skin. He does nothing to hide his grimace when white face powder smears against the sleeve of his costume.
“Go, go! You are already late!”
Time passes too quickly. Xiaohe has since lost count of the times they have performed as Sheng and Dan, but Yufei knows that the number is 1,355. They do not perform on Lunar New Year or Tomb-Sweeping Day. It becomes too easy to keep track when this is life.
Xiaohe crosses the stage—places a hand on Yufei’s gossamer thigh. His touch is delicate and warm. His voice rumbles the low tone of the opening tune. It is a shame that this is all an act.
“We are a perfect match, I came to your room despite it being late. I admire your charm, I love your charm. I cry and wait for you under the moon. Staying under the willow shade, my heart longs for the butterfly coming to say that it understands the flower.”
Yufei raises a hand to wipe away tears. He can no longer tell if these are his own feelings or merely the signs of expert artisanship. Whatever they seem to be, they play the part well. The audience jeers and presses the heroic Liu Mengmei to act fast. It is here that Yufei and Xiaohe are to promise to wed each other. Take the maiden, the audience says, knowing all too well that Yufei is but a man. Yes, a man.
“You look so beautiful when you cry. Let us keep under the flowers and willows, then. There we can stay together.”
Xiaohe takes one of Yufei’s hands in his and licks away the excess tears that have fallen into his open palm. This action no longer follows script. Xiaohe looks into Yufei’s burning eyes. The audience roars.
Yufei had once been too careless with his words. This was back when the love letters read too difficult—when they were filled with too many extraneous words—words that were desperate and reeked of pity. How disgustingly he wanted to feel loved.
In the summer off-seasons, peonies bloomed wildly outside the practice theater. On one of those same summer days, Xiaohe cut his hand against the edge of Liu Mengmei’s prop blade. The flower’s petals accompanied the roaring winds and rasped gently against the infirmary window.
“Idiot, idiot.” The blood from the wound flowed into Yufei’s open palm just as the water from the Yangzi flowed into the Pacific. Yufei cursed and cried. Bit his tongue as if he was the one who was really in pain. He was.
“Relax. It’s not a pain I haven’t experienced before. You don’t need to be this worried for me, Feifei.”
“Idiot! I’m not worried for you—I’m in awe over how you could even injure yourself on a blade so dull!”
When the proper bandages were found, Yufei spit into the open wound and tied the cloth so tight that Xiaohe could barely feel the worsening ache. Yufei looked down upon the blossoming red stain and smiled. This wound was both his and Xiaohe’s.
“You know what’s funny? With the way you always fuss about me, people might as well think you’re my housewife.” Xiaohe threw his head back in laughter. Used his free hand to rummage around and stick a once-used cigarette between his front teeth for good measure.
Yufei could not laugh. He trembled and shook. No matter how hard his mind rejected the pleasure, his body could not hide its guilt. He blushed. He sighed.
“A-Xiao, do you remember the last night we both drank together? The last full moon, when the Cowherd and Weaver Girl finally reunited across the night sky? You must remember that, right?”
“I do. Yes, why? I drank so much of the rice wine that even the pale servant girl didn’t dare come near our table for the rest of the night.” Xiaohe grinned. “Nothing special happened that night.”
Given pen and paper, Yufei would have written about how beautiful Xiaohe looked that summer day. The sunlight cut clear through the panes and shone so true that Xiaohe must have been a prince sent by the Jade Emperor himself. His laughter was nothing less than a gift from the venerable Guanyin, for how else could its pure tenor absolve Yufei of all his sins? Xiaohe, who had somehow saved him from the vicious cycle of rebirth. Xiaohe, who had brought life back into this loving heart. It was this Cai Xiaohe that could do it all. Given pen and paper, that is what Yufei would have written.
“Do you remember the moment… the moment you said that if I was a girl, you would marry me? You’d like me more than just a brother then. That’s what you said.”
There was a pause. Xiaohe could not seem to recall the memory. If it was only Yufei who remembered those sacred words, then who was to say that Xiaohe truly did say those things?
“That’s odd. I’m not sure why I said that.” Xiaohe smiled uncomfortably. “It was just a joke. I don’t want you to worry yourself over such a trivial thing.”
Who was Xiaohe to dictate what Yufei could feel? Xiaohe knew nothing of his feelings. Xiaohe knew nothing about him. God, how foolish had Yufei been to have illusioned himself all these years?
“Ah, I see. You’re right.” But there would always be that masochistic pain. That aching pleasure that Yufei inflicted onto himself whenever he looked right back into Xiaohe’s eyes. It did not matter what Xiaohe would say. Yufei would always crawl back regardless. Hungry. Begging. Tired. Yufei could never let go of his own lustful desires when they filled him with so much ecstasy.
Ah, it felt good to hurt like this.
“Your hand is bleeding again. Let me rebandage your wound.”
The day is cold when Yufei stops by Xiaohe’s apartment. The Beijing winds are crueler than usual and Yufei rubs his hands together before resigning to the fact that Beijing must hate him. There is no other explanation, of course, and Yufei laughs at his own little joke. Yes, it must be true. Beijing hates him.
Xiaohe answers the door with swollen lips and flushed skin. There’s a finger sitting in his wet mouth and Yufei can see the imprint of a ring of teeth when Xiaohe pulls it out. Yufei squeezes his fists together a bit tighter.
“Oh, Yufei. Today was the day you were supposed to come over, right… Today, yes. It was today, wasn’t it?”
“It was. But I see you’re occupied with something else. I’ll leave, if you’d prefer we just—”
Yufei goes to close the door. Xiaohe puts his foot between the frame and doesn’t seem to mind the pain.
“No, no. It’s fine. This is perfect timing, actually. Come in.”
And desperate for love, Yufei does. He takes off his shoes and rests them by the door, ignoring the beige-glossed heels that have been thrown to the side, a single strap torn from its threading. If Xiaohe notices this, he makes no motion to confront the feeling. Merely looks the other way and gestures to the parlor down the hall.
“Hang up your things—rest, if you’d like. You always work so hard, it worries me. I’ll be back in a bit. I just need a moment to prepare.”
Xiaohe leaves the room and Yufei is still alone. The apartment is spacious and Yufei is almost surprised at the grandeur of it all. Modesty does not befit Xiaohe. Yufei knows this well.
When five minutes pass and Xiaohe has shown no signs of returning, Yufei begins to write. Writes a love letter, of course, and becomes frustrated when the words don’t come out quite right—feels weak on the tongue and even weaker from the heart. They are words hastily written, things that should never be spoken out loud, much less written into mortal words with a’s and o’s. When words are written out like this, the feelings associated with them become real. Yufei doesn’t need that.
Today, what does Yufei write about? The weather, the people, the streets? There is not much he can write about anymore. Yufei writes about nothing in particular (and perhaps that is the beauty of it. Love. His painful privilege).
“Ouyang Yufei! I’m glad you are still here. I’d like you to meet A-Yue, my fiancée.”
Xiaohe has returned. In his arms is the fragile body of a woman, giggling and flesh-colored. She lives, she breathes. She is Xiaohe’s.
“Fiancée?” Yufei asks the question as if his ears have deceived him. As if this sudden guise of clarity will reverse what he knows is already true.
“Yes, fiancée. You’re surprised that anyone would ever fall for a sorry brute like me, right? I know, me too. We’re to be married this autumn. I was wondering, actually, if you’d like to be my best man during the ceremony. That’s why I’ve called you here.”
Ah, so this is the reason? Perhaps Yufei should start to smile. He is an actor, after all, and what more is this than a simple test of the trade? Yufei bites down on his bottom lip and tries not to stumble back from the shock of it all. He falls to his knees instead. The tears follow soon after.
“Yufei! My God, are you alright? I didn’t expect you to react this emotionally to my marriage. Come on now. I’m glad you’re happy for me.”
Xiaohe smiles this sick, naïve grin, and extends his hand. It is too reminiscent of past memories, too reminiscent of the love scenes that Yufei is now so used to betraying as reality. He falters for a moment—reaches out so that he can grasp Xiaohe’s hand tightly.
“You’ve become too soft, Yufei. Too soft.”
Yufei wants to laugh. He knows this, of course.
“Have you not either, Cai Xiaohe? Congratulations.” Yufei bites his lip, hard enough to draw blood. “Truly.”
It is the day of their 1,357th performance. The jade ring that sits pretty on Xiaohe’s finger is easily hidden by his sleeves. On stage, the audience cannot spot that glistening thing. That sickening thing.
“We are a perfect match, I came to your room despite it being late. I admire your charm, I love your charm. I cry and wait for you under the moon. Staying under the willow shade, my heart longs for the butterfly coming to say that it understands the flower.”
This time, Yufei stands. He does not sit down when the scholarly Liu Mengmei beckons him to do so, but looks beyond the audience to the far end of the room. The theater is dark. His words carry no meaning these days.
“Let us keep under the flowers and willows, then. There we can stay together.”
The man’s steps are quick and light and Yufei can barely react when Xiaohe is suddenly pressed against him, exhale hot on his neck and words too heavy to be from the gentle, heavenly protagonist. Yufei holds his breath.
“But I am still a virgin and have not yet married. I live alone in my boudoir as a single lady.”
“It is destiny and luck that you remain unmarried. You were destined to profess your love to me.”
When Xiaohe looks into Yufei’s eyes, what does he see? Does he see Feifei? Does he see the maiden Du Liniang?
Or does he see Ouyang Yufei?
Yufei does not wait to find out. He turns his face from the audience—casts his cheek towards the light and closes his eyes. Today, the theater is dark. His words no longer carry meaning.
“I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you.”
Translation of text selected and modified from The Peony Pavilion is provided by Gwendoline Cho-ning Kam.